I've been harboring these woeful thoughts for quite a while now, pushing them to the deep and dark places of my being. I know it's not healthy, but what is a person to do? Living goes on and like it or not, I'm a part of the living. I know all the psychological precepts of how suppressing our emotions can bring disastrous consequences and for a while I somehow made myself believe that I was coping with this tragedy of ours. I know now it was false coping and how seriously dangerous that can be.
Apparently, the emotions were just simmering in my gut, bubbling every now and again bringing out a little tear or short cry. I thought maybe the grieving that was so absolutely exhausting and encompassed my being with tormenting agony was over. I could in fact go through the days and manage my self enough not to cry at the innocuous objects that frequently spark my memories to light, sting my soul, and remind me he's dead. I am pretty good at showing that facade, Ive got it down. I ask myself, who out there thinks I should be mourning my dead son almost three years into the journey? There are only a couple folks I know of who would affirm my need to continue to mourn, not grieve, to mourn, to rent my clothes, wail in sorrow and feel the depth of his death as if it were today. Not even I wish to be in that place, but somehow there I stood, in that horrid wretched place unable to escape the tragedy of it all.
I broke. What was it? I don't know. My day at work was rather hectic and stressful, I felt my anxiety level escalating throughout the day. By the time I got to my car, the tears were flowing. When I arrived at home, the wailing began. I crawled into my son's bed, laid on the quilt made of his clothing and lamented his death, longed for his presence, and ached from all the pain and sorrow in my life and the memories of that awful time. The knowledge that he's gone from this world rushed over me like a storm, stealing in it's wake all the future wonder and beauty that should have been. Again, I was pelted with the arrows that reminded me how deeply I miss him.
And now, I breathe. Slowly, carefully, knowing the simmering emotions sit qualmishly in my belly, bubbling ever so easily until again mourning comes with that full rolling boil of anguish and assaults my weary facade.
Apparently, the emotions were just simmering in my gut, bubbling every now and again bringing out a little tear or short cry. I thought maybe the grieving that was so absolutely exhausting and encompassed my being with tormenting agony was over. I could in fact go through the days and manage my self enough not to cry at the innocuous objects that frequently spark my memories to light, sting my soul, and remind me he's dead. I am pretty good at showing that facade, Ive got it down. I ask myself, who out there thinks I should be mourning my dead son almost three years into the journey? There are only a couple folks I know of who would affirm my need to continue to mourn, not grieve, to mourn, to rent my clothes, wail in sorrow and feel the depth of his death as if it were today. Not even I wish to be in that place, but somehow there I stood, in that horrid wretched place unable to escape the tragedy of it all.
I broke. What was it? I don't know. My day at work was rather hectic and stressful, I felt my anxiety level escalating throughout the day. By the time I got to my car, the tears were flowing. When I arrived at home, the wailing began. I crawled into my son's bed, laid on the quilt made of his clothing and lamented his death, longed for his presence, and ached from all the pain and sorrow in my life and the memories of that awful time. The knowledge that he's gone from this world rushed over me like a storm, stealing in it's wake all the future wonder and beauty that should have been. Again, I was pelted with the arrows that reminded me how deeply I miss him.
And now, I breathe. Slowly, carefully, knowing the simmering emotions sit qualmishly in my belly, bubbling ever so easily until again mourning comes with that full rolling boil of anguish and assaults my weary facade.
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